How To Go On... Options

[Meadowlark]

My beloved Gina left us two days ago on Sunday, November 27th, 2011.
There is no words to accurately describe what my husband & I are going through at this time. I feel like my life is empty.

She was 12 years old, and was plagued with medical problems since the day we adopted her from a shelter I worked at in July 2007.
We thought she had a seizure last weekend (she was epileptic), but a few days later she was having trouble getting a deep breath.
It turned out that what she had had was a heart attack, and had developed severe heart disease. We were absolutely shocked.
She had fluid in her lungs. The only treatment for that would have been the extreme opposite of the treatment that she was undergoing for her severe kidney disease.
We had been giving her sub-q fluids every day for a long time now, but in the end it was speeding up the process of her failing heart.
And we had no idea. Her vet had heard a small murmur months ago, but every time we went back (which was sadly very often), she never heard it again.

In the end, there was nothing we could do. Her kidneys were already considered to be in total failure for a long time. Her levels were over triple the normal levels.

She had developed a few behavioral changes in the last few months of her life. Chewing on our arms & crying, like she was trying to tell us something. No vet or animal
behaviorist could explain that other than dementia. It was still so painful to see her so sad & confused at times. She never hurt us though. She just seemed so desperate at times. It broke our hearts.

I feel guilty because I wanted her to pass away in the comfort of our home & I didn't give that to her. She died in an animal hospital. A cold animal hospital with smells of rubbing alcohol & fear, surrounded by sterile metal objects. No warmth. The only thing we could give her in her last moment was our presence & love, and a fleece blanket she loved.

I keep seeing her fade away after they injected the sedative & then the poison. I feel like I failed her somehow, having her put to sleep.
That day we had planned on taking her home & having her euthanized the next day, so that we could have one more night together.
But when they brought her into the room to see us, it seemed she was already partially checked out. She always gave us kisses, she would actually lick our cheeks like a dog might. And she managed on that day to give my husband and I each a kiss on the cheek. And a part of me thought if she could do that we should bring her home.
But deep in my heart, I feel that it was her way of saying that it was okay, that she was tired but still loved us enough to gather the strength to give us one last kiss. But sometimes I feel like we should have had one more night. I'm so confused...

I don't know who I am not having her in my life. Everything reminds me of her.

The windows still have nose smudges from her that I can't bear to wipe away.

She always preferred drinking from a human glass, so we always had one on our living room coffee table.

We always kept a chair in front of our bed so she would have an easier time getting up & down.

Her window perch, where she most loved to sleep, is still up. It's unbearable to think about taking it down, but it's also unbearable to look at.
It still has her fur on it.

I'm still finding fur on the floor & my clothing, and pieces of litter throughout our apartment.

I feel lost without caring for her, giving her meals, and medicines & fluids.

I'm still doing things out of habit like making sure the bedroom door is open enough for her to get in & out of.

When I open the blinds I always make sure the cord is tucked away so that she couldn't hurt herself with it.

Not seeing her food bowls in the entryway, or her litterbox. There is no too much space without all of her stuff.

Everything reminds me of her absence.

I can't stop picturing her last moment. I keep counting the hours, days she's been gone.

My husband and I keep thinking that we see her in the corner of our eyes, but then realize it's only something else. And our hearts break all the more.

She's never coming back & I don't know how handle this. She was my best friend & soul mate.

I wish that I believed in an afterlife so that I know that she would be there waiting for me when I died,
and that she would be free of her problems...no more kidney or heart disease, no more epilepsy, no more anemia, she would no longer be deaf. She would have all of the yummy food that she wanted, as opposed to her strict k/d diet. She wouldn't have to be poked with needles every day. She would just be joyful. And that's what she was here. She was pure joy & unconditional love.

[moon_beam]

"I still find myself saying that I wish I could wake up from this awful, horrible dream... "

Hi, Meadowlark, thank you so very much for sharing with us how you're doing, and for honoring us by sharing your heartfilled love letters to your precious Gina.

I can so relate to your feelings of your grief feeling like a horrible dream. In our deep grief the seering pain of loss we are feeling is overwhelming to say the least - - to the point where it truly feels like it can't be real - - this horrible horrible loss cannot be happening. And we find ourselves asking when will this horrible nightmare be over.

Would it help for me to share with you that what you are feeling is NORMAL - - that this is your body and mind protecting you from being consumed by the deep pain of grief you are feeling? There are many emotions we experience during this grief journey, and shock is one of them. It is a self-survival mechanism that protects us from being consumed by the many emotions of grief. As the deep grief eases - - think of it as peeling the layers from an onion - - the shock will slowly ease when we are able to travel to the next step - - or layer - - in our grief journey. Hopefully by the time that we are at the core we will have found a peace in our hearts and lives to the physical separation from our beloved companions that will enable us to smile when we think of them without being overwhelmed by the deep sadness of our physical separation from them.

But it takes time to get to this core, Meadowlark. This grief journey is one of adjustment, and unfortunately there is no fast forward or delete button we can press that will make this journey go faster or elminate entirely. There are all the "firsts" to endure and it will seem like every moment of every day brings a new twist of the sword of pain in our hearts that makes us wonder if it will ever stop. I assure you, Meadowlark, one day - - probably when you least expect - - you will find yourself thinking of your beloved Gina and you will find yourself smiling - - truly deeply smiling - - and your heart will be filled with the warmth of her eternal love for you.

Until then, Meadowlark, it is important for you to know you are not alone. You are surrounded by the comfort and encouragement of each of us who are traveling this journey of adjustment with you. Collectively we are able to find the strength to make it through one more minute, one more hour, one more day, - - each minute, hour, and day building toward the time when we can once again feel our strength returning to continue our earthly journey blessed with the comfort of our beloved companions' sweet Living Spirit to share it with us.

Meadowlark, I hope what I share with you is helpful, and that it brings comfort and encouragement to you. Thank you so much for sharing with us how you're doing, Meadowlark, and your beloved Gina. I hope today is being kind to you. Please know you are in my thoughts and prayers, Meadowlark, and that I look forward to knowing how things are going for you whenever possible.

Peace and blessings,
moon_beam